


lucky boy

by GlassRose



Category: Stan Lee's Lucky Man (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Heroin, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Medication, and the good news is he's going to get it!, anyway the point is bobby needs HELP, here's a few warnings though, i guess? that's what I was sussing out from this boy, panic disorder, rough few months for bobby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassRose/pseuds/GlassRose
Summary: What if the pizza girl showed up in the evening instead of in the morning? What if characters I love didn't get killed off just to make it easier on the writers? What if a mentally ill addict got to get better?Anyway, Bobby Hayes deserved better than a dumb lecture comparing a gambling addiction to a desperate guy self-medicating so his life was survivable because everyone up to that point had clearly failed him and getting murdered over something that had nothing to do with him.This fic is the manifestation of my feelings about all that!
Relationships: Bobby Hayes & Original Male Character, Bobby Hayes/Original Male Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	lucky boy

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have any anxiety disorders and I'm not a psych major, so there's a nonzero possibility I got some stuff pretty wrong. I was trying to go off of what I know about OCD and how Bobby is portrayed in the show, and I'm sorry if I fucked up things.
> 
> read the tags for warnings
> 
> This is the only episode of Lucky Man I've ever seen and I will probably never watch another one. I'm not hiding anything on AO3, you can look at my previous fic for Knightfall to see exactly what I'm about.

Martin was having a normal day. It was a day off from work and he was relaxing at home with a cup of tea and a trowel, finally getting some new plants in the ground, albeit in the evening. Molly was out with friends, thank god, and not coming home for a few hours. So, he could get some peace and quiet for a little while.

He wasn't surprised when his phone rang. Molly was probably calling to ask about something that didn't matter but mattered to her, and he would go check, and she would thank him, and he was used to it. At least her latest meds had been working pretty well for the last three years, a few quirks notwithstanding.

It wasn't Molly; it was his ex-girlfriend Sarah, to whom he had spoken exactly three times since their break-up eighteen months ago. Once when he brought her a box of her stuff she'd left at his place. Once when they met up at a coffee shop to forgive, forget, and decide to be friends. And once when they went to the park for an afternoon as friends, and it was surprisingly kind of nice.

And now, for the fourth time, she was calling out of the blue. He thought about not answering. The allium wasn't going to plant itself. But he shrugged and picked up. "Sarah?"

"Hi, hey, um, I need help, now, are you working?"

Martin closed his eyes and tried not to be annoyed. But she did sound pretty spooked. "No, what do you need?"

"Can you pick up me and a friend? I swear I'll explain everything, we just need help right now please." She gave him an address. "But we'll be walking, uh, so, when you get close, call again."

"Is anyone in trouble? Do I need to bring my kit?"

"I don't think--uh, yeah, maybe, but, uh, I think it can wait until we get back to your house, it's just--like I said, I'll explain everything."

"Fine, on my way."

"You're a lifesaver, Marty."

He hung up, grabbed his keys and first aid kit, and drove into town. Sarah directed him down five blocks and he pulled up by an alleyway. Sarah was carrying a pizza bag and waving him down, and a man in an open hoodie stood behind her, clutching a wooden box to his chest, muttering to himself, maybe having a panic attack. Martin wasn't sure. Sarah managed to herd the man into the backseat. He buckled himself immediately, and Sarah sat in the passenger seat. "Get us out of here, please."

"Great, sure." Martin merged back into traffic. "What's going on? Who's this? Are you okay, mate?"

"Yeah, no, we're fine, I just had to beat in some hitman's head with a chair when I was trying to deliver pizza to Bobby and oh god, thank god you're here, I'm also absolutely freaked out."

"But really."

"I'm serious! Hitman! Trying to strangle him with a bag!"

Martin stared at her. "What? We need to go to the police!"

"Watch the road!" she yelled as the guy in the back stammered out, "No police!"

Martin braked in time and caught his breath. "What the fuck is happening? Why no police? Why did you fight a hitman?"

"They might be dirty," Bobby said, tapping his finger on his box. Six taps. Pause. Six. Pause. Six.

"Did you call me because Molly has drugs?" Martin demanded.

Sarah shrank down in her seat. "Maybe. What was I supposed to do? We had to run. He just needs a place to hide. I think. I don't even know what's going on either. Bobby, why _was_ that man trying to kill you?"

"No," Bobby said jerkily, "can't say, can't let you get caught up. I--I need to call him. Oh god. I was making it work. I can't start over. I can't."

"Should I be driving you to a hospital? Do you have meds you need? I'm a paramedic, I can--"

"No! No hospital."

"Look," Sarah interrupted, "let's just get out of town, all right? Then we'll talk it all out."

"Sure, yeah." Martin turned down the main street to get out of the city. "Yeah, I mean, every day my ex-girlfriend calls me for a ride because her new boyfriend's being hunted by a hitman, that's normal."

"Not boyfriend," Bobby said a little too quickly.

"Whatever." Martin rolled his eyes and turned on the radio. About halfway home he noticed in the rearview that Bobby had his hands over his ears and felt like a dick. Molly didn't mind music most of the time, but Martin should've known better anyway. He turned off the radio. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking." Bobby didn't reply or move, and soon Martin pulled into his driveway. Molly was still out. Sarah had to coax Bobby out of the car, which was largely unsuccessful until Martin said, "You can stay in my guest room, there's not much stuff in there and you can move things if you want."

That helped, and Bobby followed them inside, carefully removing his shoes outside the guest room door. Then he shut the door behind him. Martin turned to Sarah. "Okay. Explain."

"I don't really know! I was just delivering pizza and--I could really use a cup of tea."

"Tea later, explanations first." The light switch in the guest room clicked on and off and stayed on the sixth time.

"Okay, listen. I usually deliver pizza for him because, you know, likes routine, doesn't leave his flat, and some of my coworkers are dicks and I think he's sweet--that's not important. I came by with a box of pizza and he didn't answer and he always answers, and then there was noise so I opened the door and there was this man trying to kill him! So I screamed! And the murderer turned around and chased me so I threw my helmet at him and then Bobby saw me and tried to grab the man so I guess he decided the six foot tall bloke was a bigger threat than the tiny girl and started choking him to death and then I grabbed the chair and hit him on the head as hard as I could and I guess I knocked him out. The hitman or whatever. And then I tried to call the police but, you know, well, you saw, or no, you didn't, because of the jacket. Well anyway. No police. I basically had to force him to put shoes and a jacket on and drag him out of his flat. He grabbed the box and we got on a bus but then the bus driver kicked him off because no one fucking cares about the mentally ill in our stupid society--"

"Please focus."

"--and then I called you. And that's it. I think he knows why that man was trying to kill him but I don't know, he won't tell me, he's not exactly holding it together right now."

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and let out a big breath. "Okay. Explain again why we can't go to the cops."

"Because, because Bobby's, you know." She tapped her finger along her arm. "They won't care about him."

Oh. _Oh_. "Shit. What's in that box?"

"I don't know. Money? Teddy bear?"

Martin stood up and opened the guest room door. "God damn it," he said, seeing Bobby tightening a belt around his arm.

"Please, you don't underst--"

"I'm a paramedic! You can't be doing heroin in my house! Look, my sister's got OCD, she has all her drugs in the pantry. What do you need, ativan? Antidepressants? What helps?"

Bobby looked down at the syringe in his hand. "Just this."

"Mate, you need help, not heroin."

"Please, I have tried _everything_. Prozac, sertraline, fucking meditation, experimental shit, everything. Nothing works. This is the only thing that helps any, please, just, I can't..." He shook his head tightly and flicked the syringe six times.

Martin ran his hand through his hair. "Okay, well, I don't want you detoxing violently in my house either, or ODing, so, this one time." He sat on the end of the bed. "But I'm not leaving you alone to do it either. Here, let me find a good vein so you don't bruise yourself again."

"Please don't touch me," Bobby said frantically, jerking away.

"Okay. Okay. Sorry."

Sarah was hovering in the doorway, and Martin shooed her away. "Go make dinner or something," he said, shutting the door. "Are you really going to put your mouth on my old belt?"

Bobby winced.

"I won't touch you, let me hold it for you."

"Okay."

He was way too practiced, Martin thought, as Bobby slid the needle into a vein and injected, his eyelashes fluttering as the stuff took hold of him. The needle clicked out. "You have safety needles?" Martin asked. "Where did you...never mind. Good for you. Can I get the belt off you now?"

"I'll do it." Bobby worked the belt off his arm, coiled it up, and lay back, eyes shut, just breathed peacefully for a few minutes. Martin didn't like it, but he did have a pretty smile. Martin sat with him for ten minutes until the initial rush drained away.

Bobby slowly sat up, rose, and put the belt in the dresser. Then he started rearranging the books on the shelf next to the dresser.

"Hey, mate," Martin said, "why was that man after you?"

"I can't. I can't tell you."

"Okay, I get that, but I need to know if I'm in danger here, or if Sarah and Molly are."

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry. I have to call him, but...he didn't pick up before."

"Who do you need to call?"

"Please stop asking questions."

"No. When was the last time you left your flat?"

"Two years ago."

"Jesus christ." Martin peered inside Bobby's box. It was full of twenty pound notes and neatly packed paraphernalia and no small amount of heroin in a square plastic container.

Bobby pulled a book off the shelf. "Seven," he said.

"I'll take it out of here."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything I can do to help, besides watch you turn your arms into pincushions?"

"I don't, you know, I don't want to be a heroin addict," Bobby said, turning on the lamp, and then off, and then on again, and yeah, this was going to keep going on. That was fine. Martin was practiced at getting through Molly's rituals. "If I could stop taking it and still survive the world, I would."

"There are other options."

"Not for me. I'm not trying Paxil again."

"Could you stop injecting it, though? It's so bad for your veins. The 'die young' kind of bad."

Bobby shook his head. "It's just too much noise without it."

"Okay." Martin got up and moved to the door. "Are you all right alone in here?"

"Yes, I...please."

"All right." Martin took the seventh book and left the guest room, shutting the door after himself.

Sarah had pasta boiling on the stove. "Is he all right?"

"He's not overdosing. Jesus, Sarah, what is happening?"

"I don't fucking know, I just don't want to get murdered. God, if I'd gotten there just a couple minutes later...Marty, the guy, the hitman, he had a plastic bag over his head, he was gonna kill him, he had a gun too, he was…" She put her face in her hands and Martin hugged her.

"It's okay, you're safe now."

"I might've killed him, I don't know! I barely even know Bobby, you know, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, but I didn't know who else to call."

"Yeah, uh, hey, I'm glad you're not dead, but I just helped a stranger shoot up heroin in my guest room, I could get extremely fired or arrested."

"I didn't know he had his drugs in the box, I'm sorry." The timer went off and she hit it after a few beeps and drained the pasta. "Is Molly around?"

"She'll be back in an hour or two. Can't wait to explain this to her, she'll love it." Martin knocked on the bedroom door three times.

"Six," Sarah said.

He finished the count. "We made dinner, can I bring you some?"

The door opened and Bobby peeked out. "What is it?"

"Pasta. I've got sauce or cheese or...butter. Whatever. Sarah made it."

"I...okay. Yes. Sauce, please."

Martin made up some bowls and brought Bobby one. "Mind if we join you?" Sarah asked

Bobby took the bowl. "All right. Uh...no, not both, please, sorry. Bad day for that."

"I'll leave you to it," Martin said. "I need to call out for my shift tomorrow." He sat down at the dining table as Sarah disappeared into the guest room and called his manager, pleading a family emergency.

Two hours ago, he wasn't hosting a desperately undertreated stranger with a heroin addiction and a hitman after him, dragged in by his own ex-girlfriend. Fuck. What the hell was he meant to do? He couldn't let Bobby keep using heroin in his house, but he couldn't stop him either if he didn't have an alternative.

And then, of course, Molly came home. "Hey," he greeted her. "Don't go in the guest room."

"Okay, now I have to look."

"Right, sorry. Um, well, Sarah's in there, and her friend, or something, he's got at least two untreated things going on and is fleeing murder or something, I don't know, but I'm letting him rearrange the place, uh, so you might not want to go in there."

"I have many questions, but the first one is why does his thing take precedence over my thing?"

"Because hey, you're able to leave the house and you're not hooked on smack, that's why. And it's not your room, so don't go in there and move shit. He is very bad off."

"Oh, _come on_ ," Molly complained. "Is it OCD too? We can't live in the same house, we'll kill each other."

"I don't even really know what's happening," Martin said, "but er, he's here, and I can't kick him out. At least here there's shelter and naloxone. Someone failed him very badly, maybe God, who fuckin' knows, but he's here now, so that's what's happening. Sorry."

"You're going to kill me."

"I know. I'm really sorry. Will it help to make the guest room completely off limits for you?"

"I don't know, maybe." She spotted the seventh book on the table and picked it up. "No, come on."

"I'll hide it?"

"You're killing your favorite twin sister, Martin the Warrior."

Martin rolled his eyes. "Try to pay it forward, Flogging Molly."

Bobby peered out of the guest room door and asked where the bathroom was. Martin directed him. After he disappeared into the bathroom, Molly made a very dramatic face. "Oh I _see_ ," she said.

"No--"

"No, I get it, I totally get it now--"

"Oh my god."

Sarah brought the dishes into the kitchen and started washing them. "Hi, Moll."

"Sarah. Long time, no see. Your boyfriend or what?"

"No, just a friend, sort of."

Molly redirected her gaze to Martin. "A very pretty one."

"Are you having fun?" Martin countered coolly. "I'm not. I just wanted to plant my fucking allium today. How long are we hosting you guys, Sarah? What are we doing here?"

"I don't know," Sarah confessed. "I don't have any sort of a plan here."

"I know. I'm asking you to make one."

"Truth is," she said, "if you've got him to talk to you, you probably know more than me. I could barely get him to eat. And I bring him all his meals!"

"I'm still asking you to make a plan."

"I don't know how! I don't...I didn't get this far! I wasn't planning on fighting a hitman with a chair when I woke up this morning! Give me a fucking hour to deal with that in my head, all right?"

"Please stop yelling."

Three heads turned to the hallway where Bobby had appeared. "Sorry," Sarah said. "Sorry, but what are we meant to do next, Bobby?"

"Wait out the night," Bobby said. "He'll get what he needs, and I...I'll contact him again and he'll know what to do."

"Who?"

"Can't tell you. Not yet." He tried to go back to the guest room but Martin touched his arm to stop him. An asshole move, but he was tired and frustrated and not thinking very clearly. Bobby jerked away like he'd been burned.

"Sorry. Sorry. Look. You gotta give me something."

"I...I need to…" Bobby backed into the guest room and Martin followed him, shutting the door behind them. The light was off but the lamp was on.

"Is there anything at all you can tell me to ease my mind?"

Bobby pushed a trinket over three inches on the dresser. "It's not really my um, thing," he said, his eyes almost smiling, maybe.

"You're lucky you're pretty," Martin muttered. "Are we all going to get murdered in our beds?"

"I don't think he could track us. I don't think."

"Christ. Okay, but if he does, I am calling the police, I'll have no choice, mate. I have to protect myself and my sister."

Bobby stilled. "I'm sorry I brought this on you. I...this wasn't how I meant today to go."

"How did you mean it to go, getting mur--oh my god, you did." Martin sat down on the bed, queasy.

"I didn't see any other choice," Bobby said, looking away. "It wasn't...I wasn't trying to…"

"You just weren't trying not to die. Jesus. Hey, we need to get you to some kind of inpatient therapy."

"Mm-mm. No." Bobby shook his head. "Been there. Twice. Made things so much worse."

"Why?"

"Just…" He sighed. "I know that I have irrational thoughts. I know that. But it's real for me. I can't just tell them to fuck off. I committed myself the first time, and they wouldn't let me do rituals. At all. It was a nightmare, I had panic attacks so many times they ended up drugging me into oblivion, which was when I realized that was an option. It does work, sort of. At least on heroin I can still function."

"Second time was involuntary?"

"I just wanted the noise to stop, so I tried to make it stop."

"Right. That'll do it."

"Had one nurse who let me do rituals until the paxil actually started working, then wouldn't let me, even after I tried to explain I needed some of them, that I wasn't fucking fixed, it was just quieter. That was a long stay."

"But it stopped working?"

"After six months."

"Ouch."

"Had to figure out how to taper off myself."

"Yikes."

"After I got off of it, I...found heroin. I had some marketable skills and I needed a space I could control completely, where I could make the rules, where no one would yell at me for ruining the lightbulbs, for rinsing the dishes too long, for making a big fucking deal out of shoes in the house, it's gross, it is, so I moved out."

"You still talk to your parents?"

"No."

"Because they didn't support you."

"Because they don't understand. They never will. I can't make them, and I can't try anymore." He looked back at Martin. "Most people don't."

"You must be very lonely."

"No, it's...it's easier. Without people around."

"You're talking to me. You're talking to me a lot."

"The drugs help." He finally got the dresser the way he wanted it. "You don't bother me."

"Does Sarah?"

"A little. It's not her fault. Most people bother me. I'm sorry, am I bothering you?"

Martin shook his head. "No. I get it, sort of."

"Yeah?"

"I had to become my sister's champion when we were seventeen. Our parents, er, were not interested in the difference between personal taste and compulsions, which was fine for them 'cause they could ignore us, but eh, I couldn't." Martin leaned back against the pillows and put his hands behind his head.

"That's why I tried to avoid people. At least when it's my home they can't get angry when I annoy them." Bobby took a step toward the bed. "You don't get angry."

"Eh. You're not annoying."

"Could you...other side?"

"Sure." Martin scooted over to the right side of the bed, and Bobby sat down on the left side, feeling the mattress.

"I won't sleep tonight unless I have more. The bed is wrong."

"Don't, you'll fuck yourself up worse."

"I know how to handle it. I'm not hurting anyone."

"You'll run out and not be able to get anymore."

"Shit." Bobby lay down. "I won't sleep, then."

"Then don't sleep." Martin paused. "If you don't sleep, will you be all right?"

"No, but...yes."

"Hey, er, I really am sorry I grabbed you earlier. I wasn't thinking, it's been a rough day, obviously."

"It's okay." Bobby poked at one of his bruises. "It's not so bad when I'm...strung out. Easier if you do it six times instead of one, but…"

"Er...do you want me to finish then?"

"No." Bobby fell silent for a while.

He breathed slowly in and out, and Martin realized how fucking tired he was. He'd been pulling twelve hour shifts four days in a row, and this day off was way worse, and also, now that Bobby had fallen into his life, he was trapped. He wasn't able to let him walk out, even if he could. He wasn't going to be yet another person on the list of people who had failed the man. But god, was he tired. He closed his eyes.

"Actually, yes," Bobby said.

What? "Huh?" Martin mumbled, blinking away from the light doze.

"Oh, I...never mind."

"Oh, the thing, yeah, I can do that. Now?"

"Yeah."

"Sure, all right." Martin awkwardly reached for Bobby and slowly put his hand on Bobby's upper arm. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Two," Bobby whispered.

Martin pulled his hand away and touched him four more times. "Should I let go?"

"Up to you," Bobby said.

Holy mother of god this kid needed a person. Martin kept his hand on Bobby's arm until he fell asleep.

Martin drifted awake, his neck aching. The lamp was off--and then it wasn't. He sat up.

"Sorry," Bobby said. He was twitchier now, the heroin having likely worn off for the most part. "Sorry."

"No, my fault. I didn't mean to sleep in here, I'm sorry. Did you sleep at all?"

"No." Click off. Click on. Click off. Click on.

"Hey, is there anything I can do to help? Aside from helping you shoot up again, because I'm not doing that tonight. I do have narcan, but please for the love of god, do not make me use it."

Click off. Click on. "I just want to be home. Everything was right there. No one was bitching at me for doing what I have to. There are too many things I hate in this room." Click off. Click on. Click off. Click on.

"I'll go."

"I didn't mean--I meant the stuff, not--I don't mind you but I hate not being in control." Bobby was tapping his finger on his thigh and breathing too fast. "I hate this. I hate not having my computers and my cameras and my locks and my flat, mine, I make the rules." He slid down the wall to his knees. "I medicate when I need to, there isn't all this shit in the wrong place, the bed feels right."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You've been kind. I'm very insane."

Martin got up and sat by him. "I'm going to help you. You're going to hate it. I'm sorry for that too. All of this is shit but--"

"Can you shut up? It's too much."

Mother _fucker_ this was going to be so much work. Too late though. He was committed. He shut up. He already had a headache and needed more sleep, but here he was, sitting with a near stranger with much worse anxiety disorder symptoms than Molly had had at her lowest point.

Here he was. Here they were.

Bobby finally kicked him out around five am, but Martin took the box with him. At least if Bobby was going to try to find it tonight, Martin wasn't going to make it easy on him. He slept a few hours and woke up at ten. When he checked in on Bobby as quietly as he could, the man was blessedly asleep. Sarah was reading on the couch, and Molly was writing on her laptop.

"Is he--" Sarah started, and Martin put a finger to his lips.

He went the fuck outside and planted his goddamn alliums. Finally. Around twelve, Bobby made an appearance to use the bathroom, and then asked for a phone. "Use mine," Molly said. "It's clean."

"Thank you," he said, taking it and going back to his room.

And Martin was generally a proponent of minding one's own business, but Bobby was a mess and caught up in dangerous murder things, so he pressed his ear to the door and caught most of the conversation. "It's me. It's Bobby....I thought I would be too, but I'm alive. No. Wait, you mean--shit. And the hitman? Oh. Thank god. Can I go back to my flat? Fuck. Why not? ...Fuck. Thank you _so much_ for dragging me into this. Do you have any fucking idea how long it took me to make a space that didn't make me want to die?" He sighed. "I'm sorry your friends are dirty but that's what you get when you trust the police. Did you take my laptop? Yeah, that's why I nailed it down. Just the flashdrive? Well, at least the cops don't have it I guess. Can my friends get my stuff from my flat? Not that, I meant my computers and my materials.…You better get rid of this bastard soon....With friends. I think. I can't talk anymore. Please leave me alone unless you can get me my things back."

He opened the door and Martin jumped away. Bobby ignored him and gave Molly her phone back. "I can't go back to my flat, but the hitman's dead. Not you," he added as Sarah's eyes got very round. "The man he was after ended up killing him. But his boss isn't dead. So I can't go home, can't get my things, there's incriminating stuff there, I…I need to go." He shook his head and went back to the guest room and shut the door.

"Incriminating stuff?" Martin called after him. "What d'you mean, more drugs, or what?"

"I think," Sarah said quietly, "I think he forges things. I think."

Shit. Bobby would die in prison. "Fuck, okay. You, come with me. Bring that pizza bag. Molly, don't let him OD. I hid it--" He dropped his voice. "--top of the linen closet."

Sarah looked worried but followed Martin to the car. The trip went surprisingly smoothly. Martin wore a hat with flaps and kept his head down as they cleaned out electronics, materials, toiletries, any old meds in the cabinet, and everything sketchy, although it did require a screwdriver to remove some things. Sarah grabbed a few trinkets, and Martin piled some clothes in a bag. They pried loose the camera at the door, which they'd only noticed because the footage was still running at Bobby's desk. "Leave separately," Sarah said. "'Cause your house is safe for now, but if we're connected more, I think...you know?" She had most of the electronics stashed in her pizza bag and she'd retrieved her helmet from the floor. "I'll bike."

He took her advice and left first, and she biked a few blocks, and then he picked her up, knocking down backseats to shove the bike in the back.

"Marty," she started as they headed out of the city.

"It's fine."

"You're a bloody hero, I just want you to know that."

"No, I'm not," he said. "You put a very sick man on my doorstep, what was I supposed to do, throw him out? I'm not a dick."

"A criminal and a smackhead? Most people would. Hell, most people wouldn't tolerate the OCD shit, I mean, he's a _lot_ easier to talk to when he's high. Most people are arseholes, but that's what I'm saying. You are a hero."

"I'm not, I just--like you said. He's sweet. I think people must have failed him very badly. I don't want to be one of them."

"I didn't mean for you to like, become his caretaker or something. I mean, he's a grown man. I just didn't want him to get murdered."

Martin shrugged. "He's already rearranged the guest room. Besides, we're clear on this, right? If he doesn't have a place to stay, he's going to kill himself with junk and die on the streets, and I'm not all right with that. Especially after you went all Wonder Woman to save him."

"I did, didn't I?" Sarah said. "I always thought I would panic and run if I found myself in an action movie or something, but I didn't! I knocked out a hitman with a chair. Wow. That was brilliant. I'm amazing. Putting that on my CV. Saved a regular customer's life by whacking his attacker with a chair. Then cleared said customer's flat of incriminating evidence. Went above and beyond for customer service."

"There you go." They were near the outskirts of the city now. "Hey, want to stop for food or something? I'm tired and I haven't eaten."

"Sure, yeah. Did you sleep?"

"Eh. Few hours." They pulled over and ate lunch at a small cafe, not saying much. Martin paid. "Do you still have a job?" he asked as they got back in the car.

"Dunno. I was on my last month anyway. Got a new offer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, office job. Admin, for now."

"Good for you. That's great."

"Thanks. Yeah, I'm excited. Finally get a normal schedule."

They went home. After a week without a peep from law enforcement or other evil people, they stopped worrying too much. Sarah went home to her shared flat. Martin made Bobby an appointment with Molly's psychiatrist for a couple weeks out, which he emphatically did not want to attend, but he gave in after calming himself with a possibly too-strong dose, and Martin drove him there and waited outside for the whole ninety minutes.

"How was it?" Martin asked when Bobby came out of the office with the most visibly shattered nerves Martin had seen yet while Bobby was up.

"Nope," Bobby said, so Martin drove him home.

That night, as they lay side by side in Bobby's bed, Bobby having shot up a little bit more, and Martin having let him, because spending an hour and a half with a psychiatrist was a hell of an accomplishment, Bobby opened up. "She wants to put me on a new antidepressant, one I haven't tried before."

"Hey, you never know. It could be the one."

"Plus CBT."

"Good, good."

"And she told me to stop doing heroin."

"Weird, can't believe a doctor would say that."

"Mental, right?" Bobby half-smiled. "She wanted me to go to rehab, but I can't do that."

"I know. I know you can't. But...while my professional recommendation is methadone, I can help you taper off safely, I think. If we can just get through it, if you can just get off it long enough to give the antidepressant a chance, wouldn't it be better?"

"Only if it works. And it never works."

"Bobby," Martin said, "how long do you want your life to be like this?"

"You don't understand. I've tried to get off it before. It's bad. You think you've seen me bad, you haven't, and this isn't my flat, you've been kind but it bothers me, everything bothers me."

"Who was helping you last time?"

"What?"

"Who--"

"No one, I was alone, I didn't want to--"

"This time I'm here."

"But you won't be."

"Er, wow, all right. I've only been here the last three weeks while you hid from a murderer and used junk in my house, a thing which, by the way, has been ratcheting up my anxiety like mad."

"I...I didn't know you had anxiety."

"No, I don't, I mean, I have non-disordered anxiety, like most people. Stress? Stress. But here I am. Not getting rid of you. Still around. Anyway, did you like Dr. Morgan?"

Bobby considered. "Yeah."

"Good. Great. Could you trust her advice, maybe? I do. She really helped Molls. You listen to her, and I'll help. You can do this. We can do this." Martin tapped the back of Bobby's hand with his fingers five times and then settled his hand on the sixth touch.

Bobby turned his head and met Martin's gaze. His eyes were so blue, so heavy with feeling, fear, disbelief, and something that might be hope. Martin held steady. This was going to suck so bad, but they had to do it. "Okay," Bobby whispered.

They cleaned the guest room to Bobby's approximate satisfaction, removing everything that bothered him and setting up all of his own stuff, including all of the little robot figures Sarah had nabbed. Molly ground her teeth but didn't say anything as boxes of stuff were stashed in the shed. She ended up spending a lot of time outside the house for a few weeks.

And they were bad weeks. As careful as Martin tried to be with slowly lowering dosage, withdrawal symptoms were still rough, and not being able to use enough to combat obsessive thoughts had Bobby melting down into panic attacks he couldn't do anything about--ativan and opiates do _not_ mix, and Dr. Morgan wouldn't prescribe any as long as he was still using--compulsively arranging and rearranging, cleaning until his hands burned and Martin took away the dangerous cleaning supplies and Bobby screamed at him.

And he just said, "It's okay. You'll be okay."

It was not okay, but Bobby stuck to the schedule and didn't take any more heroin after two weeks. They waited a couple days, and then started him on the antidepressant.

Martin took family care leave from work to deal with it and it was like being underwater. He was seriously considering seeing a therapist for himself. Ten to twelve weeks of this was going to kill him, actually. Not the muttering and counting and rearranging and throwing things out and panicking and crying and locking himself in his room for days at a time. That was fine, that was whatever, Martin was used to it. No, the part that sucked was the begging. "Please tell me where it is, please, I need it, I can't handle this, I tried, I tried, I'm sorry, please, I just need one, just one dose, then I'll be okay."

Martin really wanted to give in. Bobby would lie pathetically at his feet and plead, and yeah, Martin really did want him to stop hurting. On those nights he had to sit up and make sure Bobby didn't try to hurt himself.

It wasn't constant. After the withdrawal symptoms subsided, Bobby wasn't as physically miserable, and he had been living with obsessive-compulsive disorder for a decade now. It wasn't constant hell, but it was frequent, and Martin knew Bobby was keeping as much to himself as he could.

But someone up there must've felt guilty, because it was actually week seven that things calmed down, earlier than some antidepressants usually kicked in for OCD sufferers. Martin went to give Bobby his meds but Bobby was up and already coming into the kitchen. "Oh, hey. How are you feeling?"

Bobby took the pill and swallowed it. "I think...it's not good, but it's...quieter."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"It's working."

"Yeah. It's working."

"That's brilliant!"

"It's still bad."

"But it's better?"

"A bit."

"Can I make you another appointment? Get you started on the therapy side of things?"

Bobby nodded. They were on the other side, and hopefully, they wouldn't have to do it again.

Around two years after Harry Clayton returned from Hong Kong in a shipping container, he decided to track down Bobby Hayes and check if he was still alive. He'd long since retrieved the second bracelet from Blake and cleared his own name.

Hayes took a bit of work to find as he didn't have social media, but he wasn't underground. Harry was just relieved to find he was alive and not in prison. With a bit of detective work, he found an address. Bobby was living in a small bungalow outside of London. Harry knocked six times. The yard was neat but sparse, with one big pot of blue flowers near the door.

Bobby opened the door and immediately said, "No."

"Just here to see how you're doing."

"Oh." His hair was longer but still cleanly cut, and he didn't seem as jittery as Harry remembered.

"Could I come in?"

"Oh. Yeah, fine."

"Where do you want my shoes?"

"Just inside the door is fine. Thanks."

Harry took off his shoes and set them down. The house was very neat, clean, everything arranged just so. "So, are you still doing crimes?"

"No," Bobby said. "Well, not unless some poor sod who's been framed for murder shows up at my door."

"Right, well, that's all behind me now. Thanks to you, at least some."

"Good. Me too, I mostly just do freelance video editing and coding these days." Bobby poured a glass of water and took a pill from a prescription bottle.

"The good stuff?" Harry asked.

"Antidepressant. Finally found one that seems to work. Work enough, anyhow."

"That's great."

"Yeah." Bobby turned out his arms. Some old scarring was still present, but the bruises and fresh track marks were gone. "Twenty months."

"That's great. That's fantastic, Bobby."

Bobby set down his glass. "I got lucky. Just needed one very, very good advocate, and...Oh, you can't stay long. I have a date. Not out," he added in response to Harry's look. "My boyfriend's coming over for tea. He likes to bake, he's…"

"You have a boyfriend," Harry said, spectacularly failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"I'm as shocked as you, really," Bobby said with a soft smile. "Not about the boy part. That's old news."

"You uh, you talk to your parents lately?" Harry asked, feeling like an ass.

"A bit. I don't let them visit yet, but we talk some. They believe me now, so that's something." There were six knocks on the door and Bobby let in a young, dark-haired man with a short but broad stature. 

He was carrying bags of groceries, and he stood on his tiptoes to plant a kiss on Bobby as he toed his shoes off. "Hello darling, who's this?" he asked, setting down the groceries on the kitchen counter. "I work three doubles in a row and you're hosting some silver fox. Figures." He winked.

"Oh, no," Bobby said. "This is Harry. Don't worry, Martin. He bothers me."

Martin's eyes widened. "Harry, the one who nearly got you killed?"

"That'd be me," Harry said. "Which I deeply regret."

Martin just said, "Hm," and started unpacking groceries. "Sarah's coming over for ice cream and GBBO tomorrow, by the way. Still up for that?"

"Yep," Bobby said, whisking groceries away to their proper spots. "I finished submitting invoices yesterday, so I have a few days free anyway."

"You staying for tea, mate?" Martin asked Harry.

"Ah, no. I was just checking in. I'd better go."

"Did you get your family back?" Bobby asked, and Martin took his hand, stroking his thumb against Bobby's wrist.

Bobby shouldn't care about Harry, though. The real question was one he'd answered for himself. "You did," he said. "Or you found a new one. Don't worry about me. I'm glad to see you're doing well. See you around, Bobby." He put on his shoes and waved goodbye as he left. Maybe some of his advice took, maybe he couldn't claim credit, but it was at least nice to see someone whose life he hadn't left in ruins.

Now there was a bit of good luck.


End file.
